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I’m barely holding onto the strings of sanity. I’ve been the caretaker of someone else, losing precious sleep, ignoring my own needs, and getting angrier and angrier.  Today I feel like the anger will snap.

I am at the end of my rope.  At the end of my patience and when I try to communicate this I’m ignored.  Or worse I’m met with an exasperated sigh and “oh not this again” or the old standby “you need help”.

Yes, yes I do need help.  I need to be taken care of, as selfish as that sounds.  I need to be listened to.  I need more help than typing my words into the blankness will ever provide.

But I don’t want to pay someone to sit there and judge me.

I want my mom & dad.  I want my sisters.  I want a friend. I want connection.  I just want a hug.
I’m crying in the bathroom at work, shaking and afraid and alone.
I want to know that it’ll be ok.

Someone please, tell me it will.  Even if it’s a lie.

I am ranty and upset and I really miss home.

I have always hated shopping.  Shopping is difficult for me.  Being a big girl, I’ve resigned myself to years of living in shapeless clothes.  Lots of black, no colors, no shape at all.  I have a shape, and it’s round, and should be something that is hidden under as much clothing as possible.  There was a brief time when I didn’t give a shit, and would wear sleeveless shirts with lots of cleavage.  But I have learned to be absolutely ashamed of my body, and should hide it as much as possible.

I wish that I had it in me to wear pink tights and skirts and sleeveless shirts, just because.  But I can’t.  So I find stuff that sorta fits, and have stopped caring what I wear, as long as the flab isn’t showing.  It doesn’t help that I now live in a country that’s even LESS accepting of people like me.  And even if I wanted to buy new clothes, I couldn’t find any that even “sorta” fit.  Not unless I want to spend a fortune.

So WalMart stuff is cheaply made and mostly crap, but I know I could walk into any WalMart in America and find trousers that fit me.  I could find sweaters and tshirts and workout gear that fit me.  Sure, it’s crap.  But at least it’s available.

What the high street here tells me is that “You are not allowed to feel good about yourself if you are overweight.”  I went into a store trying to find a bra my size.  The store has an entire floor full of bras, but poorly organised, and I found 30 minutes trying to hunt down the color combination for my size.  I found -3-.  3.  And they’re not the prettiest in the world.  There was a grand total of 1 sports bra in my size.  And it’s like origami to try to put it on my body.  So, you want me to work out and lose my fat? Ok, great, where do I start?

And shoes.  The whole shoe department had maybe 3 pairs of shoes that were wide fitting.  And we’re talking about 30 racks of shoes.  I don’t care how much weight I lose, I’m still going to have wide feet that are a half size that no one carries.  And I’m always going to have these calves that no normal size boots will fit.  Unless I have some sort of calf liposuction to reduce the mass of muscles there, they’re never going away.

There was one store here in town that was a “fat girl” store.  3 floors of awesomeness staffed with these amazing women that always looked stunning. It closed a few months after I got here and moved into a tiny corner of a department store where no one even looks twice at you or tries to help.  The clothes look so sad and pathetic, as if they were just kind of thrown in there, in the back of the store, to hide the fat women from the rest of their customers.

I’m pissed. I’m SO sick of being told that I need to hide.  I just wanted to find some sweaters and a few pairs of khakis for our trip to Scotland.  But no luck.  I ended up crying in the store’s cafe while my husband tried to calm me down.  I’m sick of being told how worthless I am for being my size, and that I can’t possibly be happy with my body until I’m this unreachable ideal.

I hate having to apologise for living.  I feel like I have to make an excuse for everything I put in my mouth.  I hate having to make an excuse for being alive.

I’m sick of having no voice.  I’m sick of being told that I am a worthless human being.

So I’ll go on my trip with shapeless clothes that are 2 years old and falling apart because I can’t find anything in this entire country that fits me and makes me feel beautiful.

You think I should lose weight for my health? For my Happiness?  And if I agree to do it, does that mean I have to hate myself and be depressed the entire time? What about the body I have RIGHT NOW?  It’s not ok to love it because it’s disgusting right?  I shouldn’t show my arms or my legs or any part of me, cover it and wear black until I am thin or I die from being such a fat fat fatterson. Because obviously all I do is sit on my couch and eat junk food all day, because that’s what we do, isn’t it?  People like that shouldn’t be allowed to live or have feelings right? No, I don’t have feelings, I’m too insulated to feel them, right?

I am sick of living my life waiting to be happy because I don’t think I deserve it.  And if I keep listening to what everyone tells me, I don’t.

I’m extremely bad at arguing.  That’s not entirely true, I think that I’m really good at it as long as I can keep my head.  But if I let the anger and rage overtake me, the gloves come off and I don’t fight fair.  However, I make it really easy for someone else to fight unfairly as I have been always open and honest about myself.  Those who know me best know where my soft underbelly is and where my weaknesses are.  If I push them far enough, they know the place where they can inflict the most damage.

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I call this the Trump Card.  If someone plays it when arguing with me, they will always win.  Because they can shut me up with the following words, “Well at least I’m not crazy like you”.  It’s like the fatality in Mortal Kombat.  I can hear the words in the background “FINISH HER”!  Those words finish any conversation and make me completely retreat and shut down.

My best friend pointed this out to me when I was telling him about an argument I’d had with my sister.  He told me that it always worked because I honestly believed it was true.  How can I possibly argue with something that I hold as my truth?

Real or imagined, I’ve always felt like the “crazy one” in my family.  When I was 14, we moved again to what felt like a completely different world.  I didn’t know things were so bad that we had to move, I just knew that I was ripped from a life where I had friends and was moderately popular into a school that was 4 times the size in a very strange place where no one seemed to care.  My sisters made friends so easily, and I cried every single day. 

My freshman year of high school consisted of school, swim team, and crying.  At one point, my dad staged an “intervention” with me in front of everyone else.  I remember sitting on the brick fireplace where they explained that they couldn’t deal with me anymore.  And that if I wasn’t careful they would “send me away”.  I wasn’t sure what that meant exactly.  But I knew that I was branded the crazy one evermore, and I had to learn how to hide it better.

I could go down this road for hours, exploring the ways I should have made my life better instead of retreating into “crazy behaviours”, Not only did I have the crazy, I inherited my dad’s short fuse and bursts of anger.  Punching the walls was too obvious, so I stopped doing that and started carving things into my legs just so that I could stop the pain inside my heart.  My parents decided to tread lightly with me but soon became preoccupied by the birth of my baby sister, so there was no longer any talk of “sending me away”.

Maybe I am too honest.  I share more of myself here than I do with many people, and it’s not like I’m making any attempt to hide it.  Maybe I feel more comfortable pouring my heart out to strangers than I am trying to foster normal relationships.  It all goes back to the fear that if people knew who I really was they would go away. 

This is me.  I’m the crazy one.  How do I start changing that reality?

 

Today I was late leaving the office for circumstances not entirely in my control.  Plans fell through, yadda yadda, and so I was late.  Leaving late meant that I had to take the 5 PM bus, much much much more cramped than the earlier one.  And I was late getting to that bus as well, so I barely made it.  And since I was so late, I didn’t have the luxury of picking my seat.  I like to sit as close to the door as humanly possible, because there’s only one exit door on this particular bus and I like to be able to see it.  Today, there was only one seat left.  At the very back.

I settled myself in and tried to relax.  My normal bus takes 40 minutes, this one almost an hour and a half due to traffic.  I tried not to panic, but only when we were almost to my stop did I start to completely have a meltdown.  People and luggage were clogging the aisles, all the way to the door.  And to make matters worse, the idiotic bus driver started letting people on through the same door! I am pushing my way past people, having to shove some of them just to squeeze by.  

This situation was completely avoidable.  There would have been a seat for EVERYONE if the bus driver had done their job and ordered the idiot tourists to put their luggage in the luggage racks or in the luggage area and NOT ON THE SEATS.  And also, tell the people to put their buggies away and in the luggage racks and hold their children, then there’d be more room for luggage. And finally, let everyone get off before you start letting new people back on.  I know you  have a schedule to keep, but for fuck’s sake.  Seriously.

I wasn’t thinking about that as I tried to claw my way to the door.  I heard the huffs and saw the rolling of the eyes, and I could feel the stares.  I heard someone grumble to get on with it, as if I could suddenly make myself thin and magically squeeze myself through the giant horde of passengers.  I could hear the (imagined) shouting and the loud condemnation from every person I passed.  As if it was my fault for being fat that I couldn’t get off the bus.  As if I should make allowances and sit nearer the front (like I always do), as if I should know better.  Ok, so no one was shouting, but I felt it, and heard it, and experienced it as if they were.

This has happened before, and the last time, I just found a dark corner and cried until I felt better.  Today, I ran.  Ok, not really running, but I walked faster than I have in a long time.  I was pissed. I clenched my teeth, and glared at everyone who happened to walk past.  I was so upset, I imagined that everyone was saying something about me as they walked past me.  I wanted to punch something and punch something hard.  I wanted to hurt everyone who had ever hurt me, or anyone who thinks that it’s perfectly acceptable to judge me because of my size.  I wanted to scream. A lot.

I got home in record time.  I honestly don’t remember most of the trip.  I’m still seething with all this pent up rage. I want to scream and tell the world that I AM SICK of being demonized because of who I am. I am SICK of it being ok to bully me because I’m fat.  I am SICK of being the object of years and years of torture that was acceptable, because it was “for my own good”.  And most importantly, I am SICK of being made to feel like I should get to a “breaking point” and “hate myself enough to change”. FUCK THAT.  I am so sick of hating myself.  I’m so over that.  

I know that I’m not going to wake up in the morning into a world where people stop allowing people to be judged solely on the size of their bodies.  I know I’m not going to wake up and be magically “normal” either.  And I know it’s going to take a long time before I can find the peace to be ok with all that I have.  

For now I just wanna scream.  Who’s with me?